


Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, by Ludwig van Beethoven

by sociopath_not_psychopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sociopath_not_psychopath/pseuds/sociopath_not_psychopath
Summary: John goes on a date with his girlfriend to the concert hall to celebrate their six month anniversary. The London Philharmonic Orchestra, one of his personal favorites, has a new lead violinist, who he has never heard of. Or so he thought. Sorry, I'm horrible at summaries, but give it a try. It's short.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay everybody, this is my first fanfic ever, so go easy on me. Also, for those of you who don't play violin, Sherlock just came up with a different way of playing the piece so it would sound the same.

John glances up at the clock on his office wall for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. 4:58. Only two more minutes. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the surface of his desk. Of course Sarah chooses that moment to put her head into his office.

 

“John? You’re obviously tired, you’re welcome to leave.” 

 

“Oh, yeah, thanks. I wasn’t actually asleep, just so you know. Not this time, at least…”

 

He gives an embarrassed chuckle and gathers up his things. As he walks out the door of the clinic, his phone starts vibrating madly. Right at 5 o’clock. Of course, Mary was always like that. He sighs and stares at the caller ID. Maybe, just maybe, if he wishes hard enough, Sherlock would… he shakes his head, willing himself to snap out of it. Sherlock was gone. Two years, one month, and thirteen days. This can’t be healthy, he thinks. Keeping track like this. Ella would most certainly not approve. He remembers his phone and swipes the screen to answer the call, putting on his best cheerful voice for his girlfriend.

 

“Hello, love. How was your day?” 

 

“Oh, it was fine. Yours?”

 

“Fine, but that’s not why you’re calling. Are you finally going to tell me where we’re going tonight?” 

 

“No, wouldn’t dream of it. I said it’s going to be a surprise, John. I was just reminding you to pick up your suit from the dry cleaners, you’ll need it for tonight.”

 

“Oh, right, I had forgotten. See you at my place at seven?”

 

“Yeah, see you then. Love you, John”

 

“Love you too, Mary”

 

* * *

 

When John arrived home with his dry cleaning, he settled down with a cup of tea and his mp3 player to unwind. Ever since Sherlock had thrown himself from the roof of St. Bart’s, John had learned as much as he could about classical violin music, finding himself able to slip into his memories of Sherlock with much less pain, the music calming him as he remembered days on end trapped in the flat when Sherlock didn’t have a case. Those days and weeks had seemed like hell at the time, but now that Sherlock was gone, he would give anything, anything in the world, to have just two days with him. So a few months after the funeral, seeking some solid memory of Sherlock even if it brought him more pain, John bought an mp3 player and downloaded every piece he ever remembered Sherlock playing, aside from the ones he had composed, obviously. And when he found himself enjoying the music, he downloaded more and more, Bach, Mozart, Handel, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Beethoven, who was a personal favorite of John’s. He would also occasionally go to see music performed live by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, although never on a date, preferring to go alone.

 

As John lets the music (Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 61, Ludwig van Beethoven, this piece is a favorite of John’s) envelope him, he remembers Sherlock playing this in lieu of stealing John’s Browning to destroy the wall. This was the one piece John had heard him struggle with, complaining about the fingering it was written with, until finally coming up with his own way of playing the notes, changing the shift to third position to two measures later than it was originally written with, and claiming aloud to John that Ludwig van Beethoven, one of the most renowned composing geniuses ever, was an idiot.   
John is snapped out of his memories by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. He blinks and checks the time. Bloody hell, seven already? He jumps off the couch and runs to let Mary in out of the typical London rain. 

 

“So sorry, I must have fallen asleep”

 

“John, I’m not an idiot, I can tell when you're lying to me. I know you were listening to music again, just like I know that you do in fact need a nap. Sorry, can’t help you there.”

 

John is so forcibly reminded of Sherlock it takes all he has not to wince at the memory of his first meeting with the man, first crime scene, Buckingham Palace…. 

 

“You’re right, why do I even try to lie anymore. I’ll go change, then.”

 

* * *

 

“So are you finally going to tell me where we’re going? I mean, you can’t wait much longer, we’re in the cab on our way there.”

 

“Fine, fine, although hypothetically I could wait longer… I know how you love classical music, so I've booked us tickets to see the London Philharmonic tonight!” 

 

“Oh, that’s great, it’ll be wonderful!” 

 

John smiled, but he couldn’t help but notice it felt a little forced. 

 

* * *

 

As John and Mary made their way up the balcony, he contemplated explaining to her exactly why he loved violin music so much, and why he had such a melancholy reaction when he learned where their date was. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her such a private thing, at least not yet. To his knowledge, Mary knew that John was the John Watson, from the papers, he had solved crimes with Sherlock Holmes, who had died when he was exposed as a fraud. At least, that’s what she thought she knew.  
John picks up his information packet and reads through it, noting that the orchestra had a new lead violinist. Jackson Carter. British, studied at the Conservatoire de Paris. Never heard of him.   
As the orchestra finished tuning and began the first piece, John smiled. Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 61, by Ludwig van Beethoven. The piece he had been listening to just earlier that day. He relaxed in his seat and glanced over at Mary, smiling when he made eye contact to tell her that he was happy, despite his reaction in the cab.  
As the forty-eight minute piece progressed, John entertained himself by watching the lead violinist’s hands. He had always been mesmerized by a violinist’s hand movements on the strings, and it was even more fascinating when the piece was as complex as this. But then he noticed something. Carter, the man playing the lead, was shifting with just the same alteration to the original writing that Sherlock had come up with. He felt himself stiffen and go pale, a frown on his face. He cursed himself for being so stupid. It couldn’t possibly be Sherlock. Sherlock was dead. And even if he was somehow miraculously alive, what would he be doing in a London concert hall, as the lead violinist in the London Philharmonic Orchestra? Sherlock had come up with the change to make the piece easier to play, what’s to stop another talented player from coming to the same conclusion. Besides, the man on the stage was portly, with straight, thinning red hair and a mustache not unlike his own. His eyes were brown, his nose was much larger than Sherlock’s, and he lacked the distinctive cheekbones that Sherlock possessed.   
But even with all this logic, John spends the rest of the show deep in thought, until he hears the eruption of thunderous applause and hurriedly joins in. The orchestra rises, takes a bow and begins to file off the stage. The shouts of encore! continue for a good five minutes, so the lead violinist cames out on stage to more deafening applause. He motions for silence, and the concert hall immediately begins to settle down. Once there was total silence, the man begins to play. And John’s heart nearly skips a beat. He freezes, and feels his face rapidly palling once again. But this time, there was no mistaking the similarity to a fluke or a coincidence. John reaches for his breast pocket with a shaking hand for the piece of paper he always kept there, unfolds the sheet music and read along to the sound of the song Sherlock had composed just for him. He sits in shock through the whole piece, tears rolling down his face, until the last notes and the violinist’s receding back spur him into action. While the rest of the hall applauds, John is sprinting down to the stage, jumping over seats and fighting back security guards, ignoring Mary’s shrill shouts. He jumps on the stage, running through the curtains into the backstage area, shouting for Jackson Carter. A cello player points him in the right direction, and he is shoving through the crowd, running as fast as he can, until he sees the wide back of the violinist from the show. 

 

“Carter, where did you get that music?”

 

John winces at how weak his voice sounds. The man turns around, doing something to his eye.. taking off contact lenses. 

 

“I wrote it. For you, John.” 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re dead.”

 

“Not quite” 

 

“What are you doing… here?”

 

“The former lead violinist was the last thread in Moriarty’s web, and after eliminating him I couldn’t very well leave the orchestra without out a lead violinist, could I?”

 

And then he is shouting at the top of his lungs, he doesn’t even know what he is saying, he is so, so mad, but at the same time he might faint from happiness, and then he is tackling Sherlock, punching him. And then he is in Sherlock’s strong arms, crying, bawling, and then they are kissing and everything is alright again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so I know it's been literally months since I put out the first part of this, but in my defense I didn't plan to write another part for this. I was laying in bed last night at 3 am and the bit of dialog in the beginning just popped into my head and wouldn't go away. So I wrote this. Instead of my essay. Which is due tomorrow. Anyhow, this is my first fanfic, it's not betaed or britpicked, and I'm 13 years old. Please excuse any errors, Americanisms, or just plain terrible writing.

“Why am I not surprised at your lack of forethought, Sherlock?” Mycroft drawled.

“Because your inaccurate impressions of my behaviour were formed when we were children and are therefore outdated.” Sherlock snapped back.

“I was right, brother dear.”

“I had no choice but to kill him! It was unusual for me, because I hadn’t accounted for my injuries when I planned for this months ago!”

“Whatever the circumstances, it would have been better not to kill Moriarty’s agent immediately. The London Philharmonic is without a concertmaster for this evening’s performance.”

“No.”

“John has tickets.”

Sherlock paused. The past two years had been nearly unbearable without John, and he was anxious to finally see him again, no matter the repercussions of his deception. 

“.......Fine. I don’t doubt I can play everything on the program, and if you can pull enough strings to get me in I’m sure I’ll manage.”

* * * 

Sherlock spent nearly an hour perfecting his disguise, not wanting John to recognize him before he was ready to reveal himself. There was nothing he could do about his height, but he had donned a bald cap with thinning red hair, brown contact lenses, and a mustache firmly affixed to his upper lip. He also wore a padded jacket and trousers to give the illusion of excess weight, and a good deal of makeup on his face to help obscure his distinctive cheekbones. He examined himself in the mirror of Mycroft’s bathroom, and, satisfied with his appearance, went to Mycroft’s study to tell him to prepare a driver.

* * *

As Sherlock launched into the second movement of Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major, he suddenly remembered a rainy day at 221B with John, correcting Beethoven’s frankly idiotic arrangement. He quickly scanned the audience for John as he approached the offending bar, waiting to see if John would notice his belated shift. To Sherlock’s satisfaction, John’s eyes widened and he squinted down at the stage, trying to discern any recognizable similarities between him memory of Sherlock and the man he saw performing. Then, after searching for at least a minute, he frowned and shook his head. Sherlock finished the concert, feeling a both incredibly anxious and more relaxed than he had in years. As he played the final notes of Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor and bowed along with the rest of the orchestra, he contemplated the best way to reveal himself to John. He went through multiple methods in his head, but none seemed to be fitting to the occasion. As he listened to the demands for an encore, he realized exactly the best way. He strode out onto the stage, inexplicably nervous. But as he played the first bars of the sonata he had composed for John, pouring every bit of emotion he could into the music, he knew he had made the right decision.


End file.
